


as i’m staring enthralled

by magpieCastiel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Cardverse, First Kiss, Hetalia Secret Santa 2020, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpieCastiel/pseuds/magpieCastiel
Summary: The King and Queen of Spades share a dance.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 72





	as i’m staring enthralled

**Author's Note:**

> for teacup, as part of the 2020 hetalia secret santa! he asked for usuk + cardverse, so here's something short and sweet and wintery for that <3
> 
> (title: [snow in venice - elizaveta](https://open.spotify.com/track/3UpBjKVXRXdRED0wJjhnRF))

The kingdom’s Yuletide party is well on its way when Arthur slips away. He escapes onto the private balcony behind the thrones, carefully closing the glass doors behind him and sweeping across the stone balcony to the railing. Despite the cold temperature and the snow lazily drifting down from the sky, Arthur feels the chill only on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His thick, fur-lined winter cloak, fashioned of deep violet velvet glittering with hundreds of tiny sewn-in diamonds, keeps away the worst of the cold.

With a sigh, he draws his cloak tighter around his body and stares out over the balcony. A full, brilliant moon hangs in the sky tonight, illuminating the vast mountains and valleys of the Spade Kingdom. The river over which the balcony looks is frozen over, and the ice and snow glitters under the moonlight. It’s truly a beautiful, peaceful sight, and Arthur wishes he could enjoy it.

Truthfully, he ought to be back inside. Mingling with the court, gracing the people with his presence as a queen should. But Arthur has never appreciated the spotlight that comes with his station.

Alfred doesn’t help. 

Bright young thing that he is—all white smiles and glittering blue eyes and stylishly coiffed hair—Alfred can’t really help the attention he attracts. Though he _could_ make an attempt not to return it so readily. 

Arthur huffs, glaring out over the landscape and forcing his suddenly hot cheeks to cool. Getting angry over Alfred is a fool’s errand. It used to bother Arthur much more than it does now, back in the earliest days of their farce of a courtship. Now he’s learned to live with it.

And really. They may be married, but they’re not _together_. Arthur has nobody to blame but himself.

His stomach twists and curdles, the image of Alfred flashing his dimples at a pretty visiting dignitary from another kingdom drifting into his mind, and Arthur grits his teeth and stares more diligently into slowly falling snow. Bitter cold air stings his eyes, drawing tears to bead on his lashes. Dammit, he should have snagged a drink before coming out here; his throat is painfully dry, and maybe some mulled wine would help distract him from his distinct, Alfred-shaped problem. Yule is meant to be a time of happiness, after all. Not a time for pining after one’s own damn husband.

Behind him, he hears the sound of doors clicking open, and the din of the party inside drifts out. Arthur doesn’t bother turning around. Only one person would be coming onto the Royal Balcony, after all.

Sure enough, a few seconds later Alfred comes up next to him, elbows leaning against the balcony. He’s not quite close enough to touch, but Arthur feels the warmth of him—the man is a damn furnace—and can hear the steady in-and-out of his breath over the whistling wind. He glances at Alfred from the corner of his eye, cheeks flushing at the boyish charm he always seems to carry no matter how much the dignified king he manages to act. Slightly crooked glasses, tousled hair, mouth quirking into a grin when he catches Arthur staring.

“It’s kinda cold to be hanging out here,” Alfred says, still grinning softly. “Aren’t you the one always complaining about being cold?”

Arthur sniffs. “The royal tailors know what they’re doing.”

“I know, right?” Alfred fluffs the hood of his own velvet-blue cloak, sweeping it aside to reveal his finery and the few pieces of ceremonial armour he was allowed to get away with tonight. “This thing is so warm.”

Arthur carefully tears his eyes away from Alfred, and looks over the landscape again. He doesn’t say anything. Perhaps if Arthur doesn’t offer an interesting conversation, Alfred will get distracted and return to the party.

Of course, that doesn’t happen. Alfred lives to torment him.

“So why _are_ you out here?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.

“I’m not the biggest fan of parties. You know this, Alfred.”

“But it’s Yule,” Alfred says, the hint of a whine behind his teeth. “The people are expecting us to put on a show. We’re supposed to be, y’know, celebrating the prosperity and success of the kingdom.” He nudges his elbow against Arthur’s, unnatural strength jostling him on his feet. “Not coming out here and sulking.”

“I am _not_ —” Alfred’s grin widens, and Arthur’s cheeks flush. “I am not sulking,” he repeats, quieter and calmer. Alfred’s grin doesn’t disappear. “I’m simply enjoying the quiet. Rather, I was, before you so obnoxiously interrupted.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Alfred slings an arm around his shoulders. Arthur freezes, face heating. All these years, and he’s never gotten used to how _physical_ Alfred is. “You know you love spending time with me.”

Arthur manages to scoff. “I’d hardly use those words.”

“Good thing you don’t need to, because I already know!”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur carefully ducks out from under Alfred’s (warm, strong) arm. “You can believe what you like, that doesn’t make it true.”

“Gods, you’re snippy right now. Have a little too much to drink?”

Arthur glowers at the landscape, wishing desperately for a glass of wine. Or perhaps some of that northern vodka that the Clubs Kingdom imports. “Not even close,” he grumbles under his breath.

“Okay, since you’re obviously in a mood, I’m gonna ignore the attitude—”

“I’m not in a _mood_ —”

“And since I’m the king and you’re the queen, it’s my duty to cheer you up!”

Arthur huffs. “What would cheer me up is you leaving me to my priv—Alfred!” Suddenly, he’s being whirled away from the balcony with a hand around his waist and one wrapped tightly around his wrist. Arthur shoves against Alfred’s grip—useless as that is—and glares up at Alfred’s grinning face with all the fervour and fury he can muster despite his own blotchy red cheeks. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he demands, as Alfred’s hand settles more steadily on his waist, his other hand slipping to catch Arthur’s delicate fingers. It’s only then that he notices how Alfred is holding him; like the leading partner in a waltz.

“Cheering you up!” Alfred grins at him, cheeky and infuriating. “You love dancing!”

Arthur’s body still seems frozen. “You’re a terrible dancer,” he stammers.

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Just trust me.”

Tentatively, Arthur grips Alfred’s hand properly, bringing his other hand up to rest gently on Alfred’s broad shoulder. His face feels as though it’s burning, despite the chill of the winter winds. “If you step on my feet I’m tossing you off this balcony,” he warns, ignoring the warmth in the pit of his stomach when Alfred throws his head back and laughs.

“Okay, okay,” Alfred placates. Then he’s sweeping Arthur into a waltz, following the faint thrum of music from inside the party. His movements are somewhat mechanical, his face creased in concentration, but each step is technically perfect. Arthur stares at him, butterflies fluttering in his stomach, disbelief fairly obvious on his face as he allows Alfred to lead him across the balcony. 

Snowflakes fall around them as they dance. Moonlight reflects off of Alfred’s flaxen hair and his glasses, his pretty blue eyes shining silver whenever they catch the light. The aristocratic angles of his face are beautiful, and despite himself, Arthur can’t stop staring at him. Just as he cannot seem to stop focusing on the warmth bleeding into his waist from the spread of Alfred’s large hand, or the burn in his slender fingers as the heat of Alfred’s other hand warms them up.

The music inside swells. Alfred draws Arthur closer, then carefully, slowly, lowers him into a dip. Arthur can’t bring himself to fight it. He simply holds on, allowing Alfred’s strength to lower him until the hood of his cloak brushes against the balcony’s stone floor.

The music fades to a new song. Alfred pulls Arthur back upright, perhaps a bit too fast—sudden dizziness blurs the edges of his vision for a moment—then grins at him with no small amount of sheepishness.

Arthur stares at him, cheeks flushed. His hand slips from Alfred’s shoulder, curling loosely around his arm unbidden. Alfred’s hand hasn’t left his waist.

“Since when can you dance like that?” he asks eventually, when he’s finally found his voice again.

Alfred’s cheeks, already pink from the cold, burn red. He dips his head, almost bashful. “I wanted to impress you,” he says. Gone is his usual bluster and boisterousness. This Alfred—this quiet, confident, self-assured young man—is the Alfred that Arthur first fell in love with. “I asked Yao to teach me how to do it properly.”

“Well.” Arthur swallows. His fingers flex around Alfred’s bicep. “My congratulations to Yao, then.”

Alfred laughs. He drops Arthur’s hand, then, and suddenly both of his hands are braced around Arthur’s slim waist. Arthur’s breath catches, stuck around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Arthur, I—” 

The soft knock of knuckles against glass jolts Arthur out of the moment. He glances around Alfred to see a royal attendant at the door to the balcony, politely not meeting his eyes. “Someone’s at the door,” he murmurs, face burning as he slips out of Alfred’s grasp, clumsily marching past him—

Until Alfred’s hand closes around his wrist.

“When are you going to stop running away from me?” Arthur hardly dares look over his shoulder. But he can’t really help it, and the desperate, demanding look on Alfred’s face steals his breath. “I thought I could play your game, y’know, play by your rules and give you time, but you’re not playing _fair_ , Arthur.” Alfred’s face twists into a frown, eyes hard and sharp behind the glasses. “How many times am I supposed to let you go just to chase you again? How’s that fair to me, huh?”

“Alfred—”

“Can you just be honest with me, for once?”

“Alfred, let me _go_ ,” Arthur snaps.

And Alfred does. He drops Arthur’s wrist like it’s burning, turning away and crossing his arms like a pouting child. Arthur can no longer see his face, but he can see the tension in every line of Alfred’s body, the anger and the hurt.

Shit.

“Alfred…”

“Go back inside.”

Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat. “Don’t try to order me around. You should know I’ll never listen to you.”

“No, I know.” Alfred’s tone is icy. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”

Cursing under his breath, Arthur turns back to the attendant at the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he waves him off, and the attendant draws the curtain back across the door and disappears from sight. Leaving Arthur and Alfred completely alone once again, isolated from their people, overlooking the great kingdom they’ve built together, dragging it up from the sorry disaster it was after half a dozen wars.

Alfred still won’t turn to look at him. Arthur watches as he stands at the edge of the balcony, hands resting on the railing, looking every bit the king he is.

Slowly, as though approaching a wild animal, Arthur closes the distance. He joins Alfred at the balcony, hands curling around the railing. Not quite near enough to touch—Arthur isn’t that brave—but perhaps Alfred, who has always grabbed what he wants with both hands—perhaps—

“We’ve gone about this all wrong,” Arthur says, to distract himself from his own quickening pulse and racing thoughts. He frowns at the moon, pointedly not meeting Alfred’s eyes though he can feel the weight of his stare. “And I can’t help but feel that it’s my fault.”

Alfred snorts. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Don’t be a wanker,” Arthur snaps. “You’re certainly no better, going around _flirting_ with half the kingdom—”

Warmth blankets his hand, and Arthur’s mouth snaps shut. Alfred’s hand curls tightly around his, shielding his frigid fingers from the cold stone of the balcony’s railing and the slowly falling snowflakes.

“Gods, you’re so annoying. Do you ever shut up?” Alfred is grinning at him, that insufferable, infuriating grin that makes Arthur love him even more. The kind of grin that makes him want to punch Alfred on the mouth, or perhaps kiss him.

Had Arthur less decorum, he might say something ridiculous along the lines of, _why don’t you make me shut up?_ But he has more dignity than that, so he simply tips his chin up to meet Alfred’s stare head on, and says, “I’m not running anymore, Alfred.” His voice wavers when he says it, a blush colouring his cheeks, but the words come out strong. Honest, just as Alfred asked for.

Alfred simply blinks at him. His ridiculous grin fades into something softer, his hand tightening briefly around Arthur’s before letting him go completely.

“Do you mean that?”

Embarrassment flushes Arthur’s face. “What sort of question is that?”

“An important one!” Alfred’s hands land on Arthur’s arms, curling warm and solid around his shoulders, pinning him in place. His gaze is cutting, especially so when he leans down so they’re at eye level. “Seriously, do you mean it? I can’t keep playing this stupid game—”

Arthur is not a man of action. But, in this instance, he cannot muster up the words Alfred wants to hear, not while his throat feels as though it’s closing, not while his heart feels as though it’s about to pound out of his chest. So, instead of using his words, he grabs the furred collar of Alfred’s cloak and yanks him into a kiss.

It’s an awkward bump of noses and lips at first. Arthur almost rears back, ready to make the quickest magical getaway possible—but then Alfred splays both hands over his back, caging him in, and angles his head just right. And then the kiss is _perfect_. 

Arthur makes a wholly undignified noise, fingers curling in the soft fur of Alfred’s collar as their mouths move together. Alfred is so _warm_ , and he tastes like fruit wine and peppermint.

They part a few moments later, still so close Arthur feels the frigid brush of Alfred’s nose against his cheek.

The hands on Arthur’s back tug him in closer. He stumbles into Alfred, flailing for a moment before his arms wrap around Alfred’s shoulders, face tucked against his collar. Then they just stand there, Alfred wrapped around him like a warm blanket as the snow and wind swirl around them.

“I love you,” Alfred says quietly, and Arthur’s heart stutters. He’s not even breathing when Alfred continues, “marry me.”

“We’re already married,” is all Arthur can manage to say.

“Then let’s at least do _something_ right, even if it’s in the wrong order.”

Before Arthur can ask what that means, Alfred lets him go. He stares intently into Arthur’s eyes, pinning him in place with his gaze. Then he drops to one knee. His warm hands curl around Arthur’s, holding them aloft between them, and Arthur’s sure his heart has stopped at this point.

“Arthur Kirkland,” Alfred says, sure as he’s ever been, “will you be my husband? Not my queen, or any of the political bullshit.” His hands squeeze tighter. “Just...my husband. My Arthur.”

Tears well up in Arthur’s eyes. “I hate you, Jones,” Arthur hisses.

And since apparently they’re being all bloody dramatic, he drops to his knees, throws his arms around Alfred’s shoulders, and pulls him into another kiss. The stone is cold under his knees, and there’s ice crystallizing in his hair, but all he can feel is the warmth of Alfred’s arms around him. The warmth of the kiss shared between them.

In a moment, they’ll return to the ballroom and address their people. Perhaps Alfred will give another of his speeches about the prosperity of the kingdom, or Arthur will dazzle them with a display of magic. And perhaps Yao will notice a change between them, as he’s always noticed everything. And perhaps, just for one song, Arthur will finally twirl across the dance floor with his husband.

But for now, it’s just them. Sharing kisses under a full moon, snow in their hair and laughter in their mouths. Arthur couldn’t ask for anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'm @magpiecastiel on twitter :)


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